Voyeurism
by Ageless Drake
Summary: Murtagh watches Eragon sleep.


_A/N: **huggles Eragon and Murtagh** These two are too precious. And I get a feeling that, even though Angela foretold a woman in Eragon's future, it's not going to be Arya._

* * *

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, leaning peacefully against Saphira.

The bitterness of their latest argument laced through him, seeming to make the bruises from their brawl stand hot on his cool skin. Behind well trained barriers, he strengthened his moral resolve, and berated himself for falling, even a little bit, for the other boy. This would never do.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, silently contemplating his emotions like a healer judged a wound.

The first reaches of daylight were creeping toward them, and Murtagh took a moment to watch the blushing hues on the horizon. He sighed, looked back at Eragon, and then to the elven maiden they'd acquired. Arya, Eragon had called her. She was striking in her beauty. Somehow, his confounded emotions found the strength to hate her.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, wondering why the Rider's opinion and life meant so much to him.

Back home—though it had never been such—he had felt that boilin of his emotions only once, and his father had quickly quelled that before it had a chance to blossom. Now, he fingered the scars that remained from that lesson—inside, and out.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, trying to divine the youth's mottled past from his sleep-slacked face.

Eragon, like Arya, was striking, but in a completely different way. He was wild, unkempt and with a set of morals Murtagh could not fathom. Young, and beautiful in a masculine way. Completely out of reach as well, not just because of Saphira any longer; Arya's presence was a sharp blow to Murtagh's already lacking confidence in his emotions around the young Rider.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, watched his chest rise and fall, and the way his lips parted in a quiet sigh as he continued through his oblivious dreams.

He wondered, for only a moment, if Eragon ever watched him sleep. Somehow he doubted it, especially after the death of Brom, but it was a buoyant thought that made his face heat pleasantly as he looked away for a moment. But, as always, his gaze was drawn away from the sunrise—now half-hidden by the Beor Mountains—and back to the young man laying only a few paces off.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, pondering what his skin would feel like to touch.

He knew the answer to that, having tended the Rider's wounds once. But that was a far distant remembrance now, and he wondered if his skin would feel different now that it was healed. Silently, he berated those thoughts, and shoved them pointedly away, content to ignore their implications.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, thinking about nothing and everything at once.

Soon, they would encounter the Varden. Murtagh loathed that day already, knowing even then that he could not bring himself to leave Eragon to them, even if it meant his injury or death. Soon, Eragon would have to become something that he wasn't prepared for—he would become a war-icon for the Varden, a complete and utter enemy of the Empire. He would become The Rider.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, wishing he could give the other youth everything he would need in the future, even if he didn't know what those things were.

He wondered, very idly, what would happen if he leaned over and touched Eragon. Would the other boy wake? Would Saphira? It took him a moment to realize he would be more uneasy if Eragon woke than that huge blue dragon, for that would mean a quick explanation of his proximity; an awkward situation, to say the least.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, well aware he was staring.

It would be one thing entirely to be caught staring while they were awake—that had happened once, and Eragon had laughed when he asked what it was—but it would be a completely different thing to be caught staring as the other young man woke. Murtagh figured there would be no laughter, but perhaps a quiet, sleepy questioning as Eragon stretched—and that would only encourage more staring.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep.

_If I were wise_, he thought to himself, shifting his position on the hard earth, _I would wake him now and walk away to hunt a bit, and he'd never know. But if I don't, and he wakes up while I'm still sitting here, I'll have to explain why I'm looking at him._

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep.

_If I were wise_, some other part of him berated, loudly and angrily, _then I wouldn't be looking at all. But I'm not wise. I am a fool._

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, then slowly, _slowly_, reached a hand out toward the other boy, pulling back when he made a little sound in the back of his throat.

Long lashes fluttered against sunburned cheekbones—they were just beginning to become a ruddy tan—and then stilled once more.

Murtagh watched Eragon sleep, finally built up his courage.

Eragon made a different small, soft sighing sound as Murtagh's lightly calloused fingers brushed over his reddened cheekbones, down along his jawbone, ghosting across the line of his neck, before disappearing from the warm flesh. A soft sound of discontent left the Rider, and Murtagh repeated the motion, smiling ruefully to himself as he bent to the quiet compulsion.

Murtagh watched Eragon wake, pulling reluctantly away.

_Finis_


End file.
